FIRST COMES THE CRASH

Today is the first day of vacation. Technically it doesn't start till Monday, but it feels as though I'm out the door TODAY, Saturday. I had a shitload of ambitious plans, but sleep crowded them all out. Usually Dobro, my dog, gets me up around 5:30 in the morning, but today I went back to sleep and he stayed curled up next to me till the early afternoon. Faithful boy.

A phenomenon exists in which the organism pumps out an incredible amount of adrenalin to survive a prolonged extreme situation -- being stranded on a raft in the ocean, for example, or living in a home where one cannot escape regular abuse -- but when the situation ends and the adrenalin stops flowing, the rescued organism crashes in exhaustion, sometimes even dying. It's not coincidence, but simple pathophysiology, if that is not an oxymoron. I guess I should have pencilled that into my calendar, some Post-Adrenalin Crash time. Although I had envisioned springing up out of bed and launching into activity, that just didn't happen today. I did surf the web with return dips into Facebook, and ended up volunteering to drive three hours to a shar-pei sanctuary near Cleveland next week where I'll be meeting some dogs that were rescued from a puppy mill.

The Animal House & Ohio Pet Placement has the following contact information:
2555 North Ridge Road, East, Lorain, Ohio 44055
440.277.7400
contact@ohiopetplacement.org
http://www.ohiopetplacement.org

Photos of a few of the rescued babies are below. Most of them are afraid of people and have medical issues such as skin inflammation and visual and/or hearing impairments in spite of their young age. They're now being cared for with love and patience, feeling grass in the open air for the first time, learning how to play, discovering that human touch brings comfort instead of pain.

                                                                                                                                    Pepperoni

Chicken

                                  Onion

                                        Ham

                                   

                                                                            Ham

Olive

Olive

I fell back asleep dreaming of these girls and boys and hoping I can adopt one of them so Dobro will have somebody to play with and I'll have a new baby to ... I don't know the right verb to use ... indulge ... nurture ... mother ... well, play with.  

Waking up later, hungry, it was with great pleasure that I remembered going to a country store a couple of days ago and buying many locally produced delights including honey, maple syrup, and turkey eggs from Mr. Adams' farm. They were huge eggs, speckled, with hard shells and tough membranes, but tasted pretty good this morning scrambled in chemical-free Earth Balance fake butter that really tastes like butter. A filling breakfast, and not eaten at the cost of causing animals to suffer. 

Speaking of suffering, I'm worried about Suedey, my little mini Rex rabbit, so named for his suede-like fleece. I took him to the vet a few days ago to get checked out because his usually voracious appetite has been flagging, and his usually impeccable grooming has become sloppy. Of course, at the vet's he was perky and fine. It never fails. The doctor did say that lots of people's rabbits are shedding now, and don't always feel too great during the process. She recommended I give him papaya tablets for the benefit of its digestive enzyme in case he has a hairball from all the fur. He was back to himself yesterday, but today he's not eaten much of anything and he's as bedraggled as if he'd been partying all night. I'm keeping a close eye on him because rabbits, being prey animals, hide their sickness and can die fast when they really do get sick. I'm kind of scared. I was going to take him to the Bunfest in Columbus at the end of next month, a celebration of house rabbits and featuring lots of exhibits, giving him/us a chance to meet lots of other bunnies and their humans. 

A rabbit's foot is supposed to be for good luck, so I'm posting a photo of Suedey's foot for his own good luck. 

I'm getting sleepy. Worrying about Suedey as well as having the SyFy Channel on all day and listening to giant drooling, squealing bugs battling humans has been exhausting. Dobro and I wish you a gentle goodnight. 

Nurse Randi Speaks: Morphing Misery Into Material

A Cheap Way To Replace Depression

This article from www.Lifescript.com makes an interesting suggestion that takes the usual advice a step further. As a nurse as well as a person with depression, I've done a lot of research for my patients as well as for myself and found that common advice includes seeking out things that produce smiles and laughter -- funny people, funny tv shows, funny websites, funny books. Great advice, but pretty passive. In this article, Gina Roberts-Grey urges the sufferer to retell details of depressing experiences with a different perspective. At first that may seem awkward, but the truth is that doing so teaches a person to see everything in a new light. Misery morphs into MATERIAL! The lonely downward vortex reverses itself into an upward spin as the budding comedian searches for commonly-experienced situations and feelings to share with others. Very clever idea! People have died from depression gone out of control, but nobody ever died from comedy, which can only get better.

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The Benefits of Laughter Therapy

By Gina Roberts-Grey, Special to Lifescript 

Published September 16, 2012

Depression is no laughing matter, but some experts say that comedy – along with antidepressants or therapy – can lift your spirits. Find out how...
Laughter may the best medicine when you need a little pick-me-up. But can telling jokes be a fix for depression?

“Learning to tell jokes is one way to rediscover your sense of humor,” says Katie Valentino, a licensed clinical social worker in Bloomingdale, Ill.

Although laughing about depression may seem inappropriate, therapists say that sharing intimate – and often embarrassing – details of your depression with wit and wisecracks can be cathartic. In fact, for some people with depression, making others or yourself laugh really is good medicine.

“Humor is a healthy defense mechanism that allows a person with depression to master an unpleasant situation so she can gain control and begin to recover,” says Joseph Hullett, M.D., a San Juan Capistrano, Calif., psychiatrist.

Research agrees.

Humor "significantly" improved satisfaction with life and cheerfulness in older people experiencing depressive symptoms, according to a small 2010 German study of 90 depressed participants. 

The Benefits of Laughter Telling jokes – even when they’re at your expense – and laughing in general, can be comforting and constructive.

Here are 6 reasons why humor can be such a healing force:
1. Humor humanizes and demystifies depression. “It's an unlikely form of group therapy that fosters hope and optimism in people with depression,” says psychiatrist Michael Banov, M.D., medical director of Northwest Behavioral Medicine and Research Center in Atlanta.

Humor can lift misconceptions while conveying the message that depression is a common condition that, with proper treatment, can have a successful long-term outcome.
2. Humor can literally lighten moods. “It benefits both emotional and physical health by boosting blood flow to the brain and increasing dopamine and endorphins, brain chemicals involved in depression and other mood disorders,” Dr. Banov says. 

3. Humor relieves stress.

“Laughing releases brain chemicals that counter production of the stress hormone cortisol,” Dr. Banov explains.

Managing stress helps people with depression control symptoms and reduce anxiety.

4. Humor can develop better coping skills.
“Revisiting the negative experience, seeing the humorous side and then humanizing it in a funny way for others can help you cope with your depression,” Dr. Hullett says.

When something doesn’t go according to plan, instead of slipping into a depressive state, think about how to turn the situation into a joke you can tell later.

5. Humor lessen the stigma of depression. It can reduce the shame people often feel about depression, says Canadian therapist and comedian David Granirer, founder of Stand Up for Mental Health, a program that teaches people with mental illnesses to perform stand-up comedy in Vancouver, Canada.

“When someone tells a humorous version of one of the worst points of their life, and that story or joke is met with laughter and raves, they feel differently about themselves," he says. "They think, ‘Maybe I’m not such a bad person.' ”Comedy creates a “unique cosmic shift” for people with depression because the things they’re ashamed of – such as a hospitalization – become fodder for new material.

“These are things they wouldn’t normally want to talk about, but are a source of strength,” he says. “I tell people you can't change the past, but you can get the last laugh.”

6. Humor can boost self-esteem. Granirer started Stand Up for Mental Health to help people with depression “carve out a chance to succeed at something most people without mental illness would never dream of trying.”

Tackling the fear of baring your soul, but also appearing funny in the process, can give people with depression a “performance edge,” he says.

Stepping on stage during classes, then taking it one step further to perform in nightclubs or around their dinner table can be empowering and therapeutic.“Getting the laugh is simply the icing on the cake,” Granirer says.

Getting started Ready to reap the benefits of laughter? These tips will increase the odds that your comedic foray is successful.

Ease into the role. Start slowly by tossing in a funny quip or two once in a while when talking to close friends and family.

“The safest way to incorporate humor is gradually, especially if it’s not typically part of your personality,” says Katie Valentino, a licensed clinical social worker in Bloomingdale, Ill.

But don’t use humor to share the news of your disorder, Valentino advises.

“A person with depression needs to have family and friends understand the importance of the diagnosis,” says Valentino. 

Consider your audience. To determine the best joke for a situation, think about the audience: Co-workers? Family members? New friends?

People you’ve just met probably aren’t ideal for sharing your most personal details with, Valentino says.

“Gauge the intimacy of the relationship to see [what’s appropriate],” she suggests.

Avoid putting yourself down. Depressed people often lack of a strong sense of self, and intentionally belittling yourself worsens that lack of self-esteem.

There’s a fine line between self-deprecation and self-abuse. You’ll need a therapist’s help to find and set boundaries, Valentino says. 

Say “sorry” when needed. Don’t beat yourself up if a joke unintentionally offends someone. In that case, apologize.

Valentino suggests saying, “I’m sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. I'm just trying to figure this whole thing out.” 

When humor falls short But laughing at – or about depression – isn’t right for everyone.

Although many experts say most people with depression or any mental illness respond well to humor, some might feel a blow to self-confidence – even self-loathing – if they don’t get a laugh or, worse, are heckled.

Granirer offers 3 tips to combat potential negative reactions:

• Don’t take flops personally. Humor is subjective, and people find different things funny. Even the most famous comedians bomb occasionally.
• Avoid repeating mistakes. Start a humor journal to record jokes that work and don’t.
• Talk it out. Share your experiences with your therapist and don’t brood over negative reactions.

If you're struggling with depression, these resources can help:
Lifescript's Depression Health Center
American Foundation for Suicide Prevention 
Phone: 1-888-333-AFSP (1-888-333-2377)
Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance
Phone: 1-800-826-3632
The International Foundation for Research and Education on Depression 
Phone: 443-782-0739
National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH) Phone: 1-866-615-6464 (toll-free) Could You Be Depressed?Depression affects 20 million people in any given year and is a serious enough disorder to compromise one's ability to function normally day to day. Find out if you're just blue or if you might be clinically depressed.

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Our fantasy lives.

A repost from Rosaria Williams that will make you feel good:

http://sixtyfivewhatnow.blogspot.com/2012/08/our-fantasy-lives.html

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Our fantasy lives.

(picture from a landscaping blog  I no longer remember. If you recognize it, please let me know so I can give credit where credit is due!

We live our days on two tracks, the work and clean track, and the dream and wish track. It's not as though they are opposite. They are intertwined, and the amount of focus we are consciously aware of in any one field depends on the moment.

I do most of my wishing and dreaming when I'm gardening or when I'm doing routine tasks, such as driving, cleaning house, doing laundry. In the garden, for instance,  I may start with weeding a small area and then, needing another tool, I stand up and go fetch that tool. Before I get there, something catches my eye, and I'm off to something else entirely. I'm still gardening, but I'm blending in with the entire universe as well.

The effect of this meandering on my soul is most salutary. All the bending, the pulling, the carrying and positioning, the raking, the digging, the pruning, the harvesting, all succeed in numbing my thoughts, stilling my fears, positioning me in the place and the moment of the task, body and soul.

And yet, I travel millions of miles with each little twitch. Every time I use the hoe I see my father bent over this implement for hours, tending the vineyard. Every time I gather fruit and vegetable Mother is right beside me, reminding me of something or other. Wait another day for this one is still a bit small. Take these in and make a big tart, the way we used to make it when Grandma visited. You are lucky with a big refrigerator and lots of freezing space, you could bake a few extras and taste these delights in the middle of winter.

As I work, I take great delight in how something is bending,  blooming, fighting to remain in its position. When I realize how tired I've become, I stop reluctantly.

We worry about children not staying on task. We demand their attention for hours and hours, and put all our emphasis on routine tasks, rather than creative pursuits. We test them on specific items, as though life is a big recipe we must memorize, rather than a big labyrinth to discover.

I wonder if we allow them enough time to meander and imagine, mix and match tasks, reminisce, create scenes and dialogue about their wishes, their fears, their consternation.

We must rethink the benefits of staying on task. Perhaps the explosion of ADD (attention deficit disorder) among our population is nature's way to correct all that tasking we have been submitted to.

CHEAP THRILL

Sex can be fun, but it can get you in trouble, in more ways than one! And it's not always fun. Sometimes it's bitterly disappointing. It's unpredictable. 

I learned of a way to experience intense sensual pleasure and to kindle emotional satisfaction at the same time. And legally, too, without much risk of disease or divorce. Masturbation, you're thinking to yourself? No! Well, yes, but that's not what I want to tell you about. 

In late summer, you go to the store and buy yourself a kiddie pool on sale. When the next hot, humid day invades, you pull out that pool next to a plastic chair, sit down, and turn on the hose full blast, running the water over your feet. You will be delighted by the water massaging your toes, your soles, your ankles, your calves. Not hot, but just right, relaxing you almost instantly. The music of the pouring water fills the air as a cool mist enshrouds you, and you begin to feel your tension being washed clean  away. 

The next thing that happens will be unexpected. You'll start seeing flickers of the past in your mind's eye, your own fat little belly, shiny wet as you stood in such a pool as a toddler, other little kids around you, their curling hair dripping, their pink mouths open. You'll hear laughing and splashing in your mind's ear. Perhaps not present in the memory, one or more caring and watchful adults were undoubtedly nearby to keep you safe while the summer sun sparkled on the water. Nearby birds twittered and fluttered in the many puddles created during exuberant moments of extreme tsunamis. 

As you watch the pulsing water distort your flesh, you feel that the muscles of your feet have softened and relaxed. Your burning ankles were swollen a few minutes ago but now they look different. They definitely feel different, glowing with a sweet kind of ache. 

You can savor this alone or with anyone you choose, including the dog. Shared joy is multiplied joy, but solo joy is delicious joy, too.

A few final comments:

This can be used as foreplay. 

This can be used as a sleeping aid just before going to bed. 

This can possibly kill you because a lightning bolt can strike from a storm miles away. But you'll feel so refreshed, 

you won't even mind. 

A Moment 100,000 Years Old

Two souls

A fresh soul, seeing movement and color for the first time

An old soul, slowing down from the friction of time and the grime of the road

Two souls

A fresh soul, feeling that love can be sweet without milk

An old soul, pausing to rest and discovering a tiny breeze of spring

Two souls

A fresh soul, empty of language and intention

An old soul, eroded into furrows from decades of talk

Two souls

Breathing each other's breath

Sharing their primal moment that reaches back to the Aboriginal Dream Time

IF THINGS MATCH

I grew up in the 1950s being taught that things should match. 

In those days, girls were instructed that pink clashed with red and that  plaids mismatched with florals, so dressing with such combinations was considered a sign of lack of education. "Only poor people dress like that." Therefore, not only did our clothing match, but our furniture matched, our bath towels matched, and our bed sheets matched. 

Even by age six I was well-indoctrinated. I got my first pair of glasses, making the world magnificently clear and beautiful. Daddy had let me choose my frames all by myself, too. I was happy! I excitedly ran to show Mommy my new glasses, cat's eye frames with narrow black and white stripes on the outer corners, chosen because they would MATCH with my black and white saddle shoes that I wore to school every day. I was proud and asked Mommy if she liked them. "Frankly, no," she said. "But they match!" I cried out. She wasn't interested. I was hurt and confused. I thought I'd done the right thing. Oh, well. 

The 1950s drifted away and the psychedelic '60s exploded our culture, inciting us to "do our own thing." Challenging the establishment didn't just mean challenging the government, but also our common social practices. The tsunami died down but the waves of change continued. 

My husband and I were in our early middle age when we married, so we didn't register for wedding gifts. Part of the ritual of a proper marriage included buying or being given new dishes, cookware, and utensils that all matched, but we were just happy to be together and grateful for what people gave us. We didn't need formal matching things because our lives were controlled by the need for the house to be wheelchair-accessible as well as pet-friendly. Pet-friendly and pet-proof are the same thing, right? 

We are older now, and money is less plentiful. We still have pets, but different ones. Our parents are dead. This morning I was enjoying washing dishes with the morning sunshine pouring through the window. As the water poured over the utensils, I noticed that none of them matched. 

I remembered that as a young single woman back in the '70s, I'd spent hours looking at wedding magazines, studying china patterns and silverware. Daring young thing that I was, I preferred stainless steel flatware instead of traditional silver because I just didn't want to spend time cleaning it when that time could be spent on more fun activities. The magazines showed dramatic patterns available from Finnish, Japanese, Israeli designers, designers from all over the world. However, life eventually crowded out the dream, as it has its way of doing. This morning I looked at what I had.

The faux ivory fork on the left was my mother's. She loved white, perhaps a soothing balm for the chaos of the schizophrenia that tormented her. When she died, my brother's family came from out-of-state for her funeral. They helped me disassemble everything in her apartment. I took some of her flatware even though I didn't really want it at the time. Nowadays when I look at the fork, I can hear her voice as she would hand me a plate heaped with Kentucky Fried Chicken and cole slaw on so many summer afternoon visits during the last years of her life. 

The blue plastic fish spoon is left over from a carry-in at one of the monthly Gem & Mineral Society meetings where local rockhounds gather to show each other such treasures as fluorescent minerals, rough gemstones, fossils, arrowheads, and their own handmade jewelry. I've shared many happy evenings with these dusty people whose vacations consist of hiking around in quarries carrying buckets and wearing hardhats, gloves, and smiles.  

The steak knife in the center is a childhood relic from the last century. I look at the grayed metal and can smell Texas beef, Au Gratin potatoes, iceberg lettuce salad with homemade dressing (mayonnaise mixed with ketchup), and Betty Crocker chocolate cake warm from the oven. The whole family was together then, for better or for worse. 

The black plastic spoon is Tom's. He can't eat much by mouth since he fell almost two hundred feet in a Colorado park in the Rockies. He has a stomach tube into which liquid nutrition like Slimfast or Ensure is poured. I saved the spoon for him for those special occasions when he can work on a few half-bites of buttered sweet potato or pureed vegetable soup or maybe softened banana. Metal spoons bother his teeth and tend to get cold quickly, so the plastic is perfect. He's always loved the color black, even before it was a mark of being cool, even back when people used to say to him, "But Tom, black is so morbid!" After all the times I've spoon-fed him, it was great fun for both of us one day when I supported his hand so he could spoon-feed me a cup of yogurt. 

The last utensil is both the newest and the oldest. I seemed to be low on forks somehow, so when my friend Betty and I went to the flea market last year, I kept my eyes and mind open. At a large table under a big tree, an old black man guarded items he'd collected from a major estate sale, including a velvet-lined wooden box containing a mixture of silver-plated flatware. Although tarnished, the forks were heavy and solid with intricate antique designs. I bought three. Ironic that there is actually silver in my silverware drawer now, and they have come to shine as if they'd been polished. 

Although they don't match, all the utensils are relics, each one triggering a memory of another place and time, as well as the reality into which someone's dreams evolved or dissolved. 

They match with life, and that's what counts. They are beautiful.

OUR CORPSES

For some reason I've been feeling super happy lately, full of love for the people around me, appreciative of the glorious beauty of summer, really thankful to be alive. All that is great, but the 

underside of it is being really thankful not to be dead. 

Watching crime tv the other night, I began to wonder what I would look like dead. Correction: what I WILL look like dead. Gotta love technology ... I whipped out the smartphone and after a few practice poses, took a photo of myself with my eyes partially open, my jaw slack and still. My jaw is not often still. I made what hospital and extended care facility nurses refer to as "the Q sign," the classic face of death in which the swollen tongue protrudes sideways out of the open mouth. Too bad I couldn't get a 

summer fly to land on my cheek.

Emailing the photo to myself from the phone to the laptop, I made two versions using iPhoto, the Mac photo editing application. One picture came out sort of old-timey, obviously and unflatteringly depicting a dead woman. 

The other one shows the enhanced color of post-mortem 

decay and mottling. Vividity and lividity. 

At first I found that the usual human fascination with the face of death was compounded by the fact that it was my own face, but then it started grossing me out. 

It took a few days to get used to the idea of being dead. 

Then came the question of whether or not to share the pictures. Would you have shared them? Why or why not? 

One thing I will say is that comparing the photos to one taken a few months ago made me thrilled to see how PRETTY I am because I'm ALIVE! If you're having a bad day, take a mock photo of your corpse and your outlook will change!